Sunday, 24 February 2013

There’s something universal about a good sunset. It’s a display of
nature at its most luridly colourful; the intense reds and oranges seemingly a
world away from the subdued browns and greens of our naturally British scenery.
Everybody stops and stares. Wordsworth talks of the tranquillity of
sunsets, and yesterday, at five pm, as the sky turned lysergic, the bridge over
the loch was thronged with students. Nobody was talking or walking though; just
quietly watching.

I can’t blame them. People, particularly photographers, get snooty
about sunsets, as if they’re above such lurid displays of colours, as if they'd
rather live in a world of green and brown and grey, with all the joy of
Wordsworth’s blank verse. But you’ll find me on the bridge, with the people,
watching the sun as it disappears in a blaze of dumb, fun colour. (Ps: all this time not spent birding has resulted in 3,500 words on my dissertation. Only 11,500 left to go. In the meantime, I also conducted this here interview.)

Monday, 18 February 2013

The earth spins and the sun dips below the distant western
mountains, behind which the sunset dies, daily. Its fading orange blur blends seamlessly
into the darker blue then black of night. The moon is three quarters of the way
to its nightly zenith and a sprinkling of stars and planets are just appearing
above the Forth valley. Falkirk twinkles in the distance. Spinning above me, 200
miles above me to be precise, the international space station draws a little
white arc across the Scottish central belt at a steady pace, before fading away
in the eastern sky.

It’s a dizzying spectacle of numbers though a faintly
underwhelming one to experience. At roughly 50 metres long and 20,000 kilos, it
is a sizable chunk of human endeavour that’s been floating with the space junk
since November 1998. Yet there is a certain poetry to see it, as science’s own
created speck in the sky, slowly doing its job as unspectacularly as possible.
Just five groups coming together to further research into the biggest and
smallest things imaginable: space, and cell growth under microgravity. Just for
a few minutes the idea of it is enough to restore my faith in humanity.

Thursday, 14 February 2013

A confession: I once flushed a bird. It was midweek, April,
2009, and I was Landguard searching for a bird that would’ve been a lifer. It
hadn’t been seen since the middle of the day, and now it was late afternoon:
overcast, an icy breeze had sprung up and there were only about four other
birders out searching. I’d chosen to check the tip of the point when I was
coming back around to face the observatory, when out of a hollow with long
grass, completely out of my sight but just in front of me, the Hoopoe sprung
out. For a split-second the dazzle camouflage of pink, black and white stripes
really works, by which time it was over the next bush and lost to sight for
another hour or so.

Did you spot the lie in that paragraph?

Of course I haven’t flushed one bird. I flush a Blackbird
from the hedge by the front door of my flat every time I leave. I panic the
pigeon on my bird feeder every time I open my bedroom blind or window. I give a
pheasant pulmonary trouble every time I walk the local fields. It was a lie by
omission of the word ‘rare’. I was birding/twitching at the time too: not
photographing.

There's no problem when the bird pops up in front of you, blissfully unconcerned.

The birding ‘scene’ is a relatively small pond with not much
in the way of right and wrong. Issues flare up, die down, and then reappear
several months later once they’ve left everybody’s goldfish memories. One of
the most regularly reoccurring is the issue of behaviour, which has been
polarised into birders (us, real men) V.s photographers (them, monsters). For
one of the most recent examples, see Jonny’s provocative blogpost, ‘No Photos’.
And while I agree that there are more photos of the Aldeburgh Arctic Redpoll on
the internet than there are of Jordan’s tits (it’s empirically true… probably)
and we’re all bored of seeing them, this is an issue that could benefit from a
bit less polarity.

I am a birder, foremost, photographer second. Except for
when I wake up photographer foremost, birder second. It’s hard to take a side
in an issue when you occupy and enjoy both sides. There is one things both
sides can agree on though: causing unnecessary disturbance to wildlife is
wrong. A photograph, as Jonny’s blogpost says, is not a necessary reason, but
neither is getting a good view. I have never seen bad behaviour in the field
from a photographer that I haven’t also seen a birder doing, and that includes
getting too close to birds, trampling habitat, entering areas they shouldn’t
be. I remember one particular instance of a footpath to a viewpoint by a
military firing range and two birders stood all of five metres into the range,
in nesting Woodlark habitat. I didn’t say anything at the time, perhaps I
should’ve. In my defence, I was a shy spotty sixteen year old and nobody really
takes kindly to being told off by a teenager.

A mildly controversial twitch.

The crux of the issue though is flushing: birders blame
photographers for intentionally flushing birds to take photos, photographers
protest their innocence. This is behaviour a lot of people report, less people
have seen: I certainly haven’t. If it does happen (and I’m sure occasionally it
must), it is idiotic. A flushed bird flies away, looks unnatural and makes a
bad photograph and a bad photographer. I believe we’re guilty of making
scapegoats of photographers though, and not examining our own behaviour; as if
taking a photograph is a lesser act than merely looking, and thus easier to
blame. It is ludicrous to imagine a situation in which a birder has never
accidentally flushed a bird through ignorance or to get a better view (even if
it’s just a pheasant).

But also it does depend on how you interpret events. I
was with Jonny at the Aldeburgh Arctic Redpoll twitch; an event that he has
said a few times featured bad behaviour by photographers. I disagree. As the
bird was refound, photographers and birders lined up together to look at the
bush in which the bird was feeding. No photographer selfishly went closer than
any birder and at no point did the bird – a famously confiding bird that
perched on people’s scopes* – appear concerned, worried or generally affected by
the behaviour of those present. I also have the idea that the Sparrowhawk
present at the site was deterred from attempting to make a meal of the big
white finch by the presence of the twitchers. Certainly it wasn’t the most
edifying behaviour or the greatest example of field craft, but this doesn’t
necessarily make it bad behaviour.

Let’s be reasonable about this: a few photographers give
them all a bad name. Same for birders, twitchers, gamekeepers, and the rest of Homo sapiens. Internet rants might be
cathartic but they serve only to unreasonably polarise the debate. Mutterings
of a code of conduct for photographers** are reasonable if you apply it to
birders and dog-walkers too: both are causes of disturbance. It is much better,
and more productive to talk about this politely, in the field, where you see it
happening, regardless of whether they’re a birder, photographer, dog-walker,
etc.

* Edit: I found the photo to prove my point, although it wasn't quite as I remembered it...

**One further point: We’re all photographers now. At the last
few twitches I’ve been at and hides I’ve been in, there’s always a bloke with a
scope and an iPhone, snapping away, who’d never call himself a photographer.

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

I interviewed Irish birder, author and photographer Anthony McGeehan about his book, Birds - Through Irish Eyes, for Surfbirds. Click on the pic to read the article as usual. Click here to read my review of his book for BirdGuides.

Friday, 1 February 2013

Is there anything more romantic than the night sky? On a
night like this: nothing. Inky black space and stars sprinkled like celestial sugar (ridiculous, I know).
They speak of an unparalleled distance from the here and now, but the here and
now speaks more aesthetically to me at this moment in time. Past the streetlights,
the golf course hides in darkness: beyond, the lights of the central belt bathe
Scotland the colour of rust. There’s more colour in this night than there was
in the day. The landscape of man has its moments, when it’s not killing the
night sky.

I haven’t seen a bird worth talking about since the snows
melted.

Days spent deep in books and nights spent forgetting it all
again. That’s the pattern at the moment. A walk back from my friends attempted
to cure the mood. Instead I got a Barn Owl. White under the streetlights, on rounded
silent wings, it’s in front of me when I notice it. Owl. Most definitely not
Tawny goes the thought process. In seconds it had disappeared into the darkness,
with one lingering Barn Owl shriek…

And, just like that, birds fly through my life again. It’s
my first in Scotland, surprisingly, and not outwith the bounds of reason, but
quite unexpected anyway. With the direction, height and speed of flight, I
guess it was taking a shortcut from one patch of farmland to another, avoiding
the city or hills.